Hedonistic Ignorance

I’ll find you in that same hole,
The same one your mother had once dug
And your brothers had chosen to spit in
To make it warm.
I’ll find you there and lay beside you,
Cold.
Cold dirt,
Cold limbs,
Cold breath.
And I’ll get right out.
You have no other.

Piercing ear drum shapes the silence
Beating back and forth in your skull,
Puncturing your brain with incessant dead
Dead nothing, dead dirt, dead silence.
You’ll grab at my nape,
Sink your nails into my throat,
Claim I was never the victor,
And slip back into that hole.
Slip back into that hole.
Back into that hole.
Into that hole.
That hole.
Hole.

I once held a feral being,
It gnawed at my palms as it scrambled
To get away,
Too narrowed by its own existence to realize
That I was the only thing holding it up
From oblivion.
It gnawed until I bled.
It broke the flesh, it tore the ligaments,
It ravaged muscle, cracked the bone.
I just held it tighter.
Until it broke through,
And fell into
Avoidable
Oblivion.